


Threads of an Old Life

by EmilianaDarling



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (Fili and Kili), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Brief suicidal thoughts, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Repression, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Recovery, Thorin Lives AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3127052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmilianaDarling/pseuds/EmilianaDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on when, in your heart, you begin to understand: there is no going back.</i>
</p><p>Thorin survives. Bilbo lingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threads of an Old Life

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently there's only so long I could go without writing post-Battle of the Five Armies fix-it fic, although this story is perhaps a little bit less all-encompassing in its 'fix-it' nature than others. But grief is not an ending, and life can still go on. I _needed_ to write this story after seeing the last movie; I truly hope you guys enjoy it. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much to my beta-reader [StarkPanda](http://starkpanda.tumblr.com/), without whom I would be truly lost.
> 
>  

                                     

\--

 

The air is bitingly cold up here and Bilbo’s head is pounding so hard he can barely see straight, but none of it matters compared to the reality of Thorin’s battered body in his arms. 

“The eagles…” Bilbo breathes, his words barely more than the ghost of a whisper. His vision is swimming so badly he can barely see Thorin’s face beneath him, but the deep red of the blood seeping through his tunic stands out even amidst the blur. “The eagles... the eagles are here.”

He blinks the tears back, trying to give Thorin’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. But his hands are shaking so badly he can’t tell if the gesture comes across, his fingers thick and clumsy, as though they belong to someone else.

When Thorin’s eyes fall closed, it’s with a rattling gasp for breath that sends a shock of visceral horror through Bilbo’s whole body. He blinks hard, lip trembling as he tries to hold back the horrible sounds that are clawing to get out of this throat.

“The eagles…” Bilbo tries again, but the rest of the words die on his tongue. He clutches at Thorin’s shoulders for a desperate moment, then slumps back onto the rocks and draws a shuddering breath. He feels his face screwing up and the burn of tears in his eyes, presses the back of his hand hard against his mouth in an attempt to stifle the sound. 

The world swims and his head reels, and it’s as though his entire world has fallen away beneath him.

 

 

The eagles do come, in the end. They arrive with the heavy beating of great wings and the scrape of claws against stone, a sudden cacophony of noise that Bilbo can barely take in.

They bring Gandalf with them.

It takes almost three hours – three hours of muttered spells and sweeping flight, of healing hands and stifled sobs – for Bilbo to fully understand that Thorin is not yet dead. That Thorin still may _live_.

He buries his face in his hands and slumps back into the furs that someone has wrapped around his shoulders and doesn’t speak until he finally hears Gandalf’s voice say _we have him, my lad; we have him_. 

The words don’t make any sense, though. He keeps seeing Fili’s limp body crashing down into the icy stone; Dwalin cradling Kili’s crumpled form close to his chest, tear tracks running down his ruddy cheeks. 

Bilbo squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the nightmare to end.

                                     

\--

 

It takes more than two weeks for the healers to be certain that Thorin won’t die from his wounds.

At first Bilbo hears a great deal about _lucky it_ _only grazed the heart_ and _lost too much blood_ and _it’ll be a marvel if he lasts the night_ from the men and women who tend to Thorin’s wounds, elves and men and dwarves alike bustling around the tent and growing progressively more determined the longer Thorin clings to life. After that there’s talk of _infection_ in hushed tones that leaves Bilbo hollowed-out with horrible certainty, eyes locked on Thorin’s sleeping face as though each breath could be his last.

In the end, though, Thorin’s body proves to be as stubborn as the dwarf himself. He pulls through, a slow slog towards being whole and healthy that leaves Bilbo utterly speechless with relief.

Bilbo doesn’t leave the tent when he doesn’t have to; stays by Thorin’s side every spare moment of every day. He doesn’t need to look outside to know that the remaining armies are grieving their fallen comrades, that the burials are ongoing and the wounded still dying in their sleep.

The others bring him food and drink and Gandalf brings him comforting words, but Bilbo knows there is no better place for him to be.

The first time Thorin wakes, it’s about a week after the end of the battle. He’s still weakened by infection when it happens, blinking his eyes open and croaking something wordless into the stuffy air.

Perched on a wooden stool next to Thorin’s cot, Bilbo stares uncomprehendingly down at Thorin for a long moment. It’s as though his mind is stuttering, as though it’s doing the mental equivalent of reading the same line in a book over and over again, and Bilbo finds himself quite unable to process the change. He’s spent so long watching Thorin’s face slackened with unconsciousness or sleep that the sight of him waking up is almost incomprehensible.

After a moment, Thorin tries speaking again.

“Bilbo…?” Thorin rasps, and it’s as though his throat has been scraped raw. He flinches, squinting against the dim candle light inside the tent.

Giving his head a quick shake and cursing his own dim-wittedness, Bilbo leans in closer and reaches up to squeeze Thorin’s hand.

“I’m here,” Bilbo says quickly, forcing his face into a tight smile. “I’m right here.”

Neither of them get to say anything else, though, because at that moment the healers rush forward, kindly but firmly ushering Bilbo aside so they can tend to their patient.

He stumbles backward stupidly, back pressed up against the edge of the tent and staring with wide eyes. It looks as though everyone in the tent has snapped into motion at once, elvish healers moving purposefully and dwarf women from the Iron Hills crowding in protectively and almost all of their attention pinned squarely on Thorin himself. Amid the chaos, he thinks he sees a young man from Laketown being sent out into the snow to send word.

Bilbo watches it all happen with wide eyes, standing at the edge of the tent as though paralyzed as the healers trickle water down Thorin’s throat, as they ask him a few basic questions and listen raptly to his answers.

It only takes a little while before Dain comes crashing in through the tent flaps, larger than life and proclaiming that _we won, Thorin, we won!_ with a look of hard-won glee on his face. Balin and Dwalin arrive right behind him, Balin with a fragile smile and Dwalin with a look of sombre resignation on his face. Gandalf slips in behind them, widening his eyes pointedly as he comes to stand next to Bilbo and watching over the rest of them with an air of subdued pleasure.

And for a moment – for the briefest, most _perfect_ of moments – Bilbo sees a hint of a whiskery smile curling at the edges of Thorin’s mouth.

Dwalin comes forward to tell him about Kili after that, as grim and solemn as a condemned man walking towards his fate, and it’s as though all of the remnants of happiness and triumph are sucked right out of the room the second he steps forward.

Muttering something indistinct under his breath, Bilbo excuses himself from the tent with his head bowed. He doesn’t want to see the deadened heartbreak on Thorin’s face; doesn’t want to witness the realization that neither of his sister-sons made it through alive. That Thorin continues to cling to life while the boys are both dead and gone.

Lips tight and feeling a stony calm clenching around his heart like a fist, Bilbo stands outside the tent with his arms wrapped around himself against the cold. He stays like that until Thorin’s visitors leave twenty minutes later; until Thorin is deep asleep again, dragged into restfulness by a sleeping draught once his quiet sobs had proven too detrimental to his badly-wounded chest.

Back rigid and eyes dry, Bilbo settles himself down next to Thorin’s body in silent vigil; a shadow that cannot bear the sight of grief.

 

\--

 

Thorin’s recovery is slow, but so too is the recovery of Erebor and Dale.

Unexpectedly thrust into the centre of attention until Thorin can reclaim his responsibilities, Dain grants the men of Laketown their promised fourteenth share. He doesn’t gripe about it as much as might be expected, at least not in Bilbo’s hearing; he even bestows some of the starlight gems to Thranduil and the Mirkwood elves. He claims to do it so the dwarves can “get going and rebuild this blasted kingdom”, but Bilbo quietly admires him for it nonetheless.

He has seen the corruption that treasure can bring, and he _likes_ Dain despite everything. Likes his frankness and his conviction and his determination to urge his people forward, and it doesn’t take long for the dwarves to rally around his leadership. It doesn’t take too long for the restoration process to begin; for the dwarves to stop licking their wounds and begin moving properly into the mountain, clearing up rubble and stockpiling grain and finding more permanent shelter as the winds of winter grow colder. 

Dale is filled with scattered bodies and the fresh wounds of war, and Erebor is mottled with scars that run even deeper. They clear away the bodies and the broken beams and the rubble, gutting both ancient cities to let new life take seed.

Fili and Kili are buried long before the process truly begins, sung into the ground by deep voices in a ceremony far smaller than befits their station. Dain is there, as are all the other members of the Company. Balin doesn’t try to stop the silent tears that trickle down into his long white beard, and Ori weeps openly into Dori’s shoulder. Dwalin’s face is dark and full of self-loathing, and it’s obvious that guilt weighs heavier on his shoulders than any of the rest of them.

All Bilbo can do is stand there and watch as the two indistinct shapes are closed inside their stone tombs, each of them marked with a plaque that he can only assume bears their names in Khuzdul.

He stands resolute and clasps his hands behind his back, trying not to remember the sickening moment when Azog had plunged his blade into Fili’s back. The shocky moments of stunned silence that had come afterwards, the realization that _it’s too late he’s gone he’s gone he’s gone he’s gone_ pounding through Bilbo’s body like a heartbeat.

 _Was anyone with Kili when he died?_ he wonders dully, a small noise catching in his throat as he thinks it. He raises his gaze to look up at the ceiling, mouth tight and eyes burning. _Was he scared? Was it over quickly?_

He tries not to think about the empty space next to him that should be occupied by Thorin, unconscious once more and lost to the world as the boys are tucked into their graves like children into bed.

 

\--

 

The first time Thorin walks is with his arm slung around Bilbo’s shoulder and clinging on to him for balance, the two of them pushing their way outside the healers’ tent and into the bitter winter air. Their makeshift houses of healing will be moved properly inside the mountain on the morrow, Thorin finally well enough to be moved and a cleared space waiting for them inside.

For now, however, they still have a little bit of time outside. The weather has receded a little since that first cold snap, and there’s only a light falling of snow coming down around them at the moment. Bilbo settles Thorin down on a patch of frosty grass only a stone’s throw away from the tent, fussing unnecessarily with Thorin’s blankets as he does so.

He remains silent while Thorin stares at Erebor’s great outer façade with a look of numb desolation on his face, thinking vaguely about how much nicer it will be once they’re tucked up safe inside the mountain for winter.

“You need not stay,” Thorin says eventually, his words low and weary, and the sound of his voice is so unexpected that it makes Bilbo jump a little where he sits.

He turns to look, but Thorin’s attention is still directed straight ahead towards Erebor. The heavy furs hang loosely around his shoulders and the bandages are a stark white where they’re wrapped around his chest, his long hair dark and unkempt around his face. Thorin’s pale eyes are unfocused as they look off into the distance.

“We have made amends,” Thorin continues quietly, still not turning to look at Bilbo as he speaks. “We can still part in friendship, you and I.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo interjects, brow furrowing, but Thorin doesn’t let him finish.

“Go back to your Shire, Master Baggins. Plant your seeds, as you promised me you would.” His mouth twitches a little in a ghost of a smile – before his eyes seem to darken, a wretched unhappiness falling over his face like a shadow. “There is nothing left for you here,” he finishes bitterly, and Bilbo thinks that there’s genuine _hatred_ in the way he says it.

There is a very long pause that hangs heavily between them. Bilbo swallows hard, silently attempting to determine how best to react to this statement. In another world – a _happier_ world – he can imagine himself reacting with outrage, with _affront_. After all he’s done, after all they’ve been through… he can feel vague irritation building up inside him, far away and indistinct.

As it is, though, Bilbo thinks he knows Thorin well enough to understand what he’s trying to do.

After a very long while, Bilbo gives his head a decisive shake.

“That’s quite enough of that, I think,” he says quietly, staring pointedly ahead. He can feel Thorin’s eyes on him, intent and maybe even angry, but he does not flinch. “You shan’t be getting rid of me that easily.”

It’s the last thing either of them says for a very long time, Bilbo refusing to look away until he feels Thorin’s eyes leave him. Until the haunted tranquillity of the chill evening air seems to pull them both back into almost comfortable silence, breath clouding on the air in front of them and light snowflakes falling gently around them.

They sit there together on the cold ground until Bilbo can’t take it anymore. Until he stands with a meaningless smile pasted onto his face and pulls Thorin to his feet, a moment of relief washing over him when Thorin wraps his arm around Bilbo’s shoulders without debate.

Thorin may be broad and bulky but right now his steps are careful and precise, and Bilbo guides him back inside the stifled safety of the tent without either of them saying another word.

 

\--

 

Once Thorin’s condition is stable enough for him to actually believe he’s going to survive, he does not take to recovery particularly well.

His temper is short and his moods change with lightening-quickness, from anger brewing like a storm to listless sadness with a speed Bilbo truly has to see to believe. He’s quiet and bitter and furious by turns, although most of the time he seems more upset with himself than at other people. Thorin hates the way his chest still aches as though it had been caved in, the way it’s still hard for him to catch his breath even after all these weeks of rest and healing.

Once the interior of the royal quarters are restored enough for them to move in, the familiar surroundings only seem to make things worse.

 “I cannot do this,” he snarls at Bilbo one day, making Bilbo jump with surprise in the middle of pouring tea for the both of them to share. The two of them are inside Thorin’s childhood bedroom, clean woolen blankets on the bed and a small fire crackling in the hearth. It’s not much, but it’s more than most of the dwarves inside the mountains have right now despite the snowy flurries growing heavier outside.

Thorin clenches his fists, staring down at the table. Bilbo can’t see his eyes through the dark curtain of his hair.

“I cannot sit here like some kind of _invalid_ while my homeland is rebuilt around me,” Thorin continues after a beat, and for a moment his weakened body swells with the self-certainty and _conviction_ that Bilbo remembers so well from when he used to speak about the quest. Thorin shakes his head, scowling.  “It is too much, Master Baggins. Too much.”

 “… all right,” says Bilbo after a beat, staring down at the stone-hewn teapot in his hands with unfocused eyes. It’s a nice tea set, all things considered. Sturdy. His mouth twitches, face rumpling into something that he hopes resembles a neutral expression. “Yes, all right.”

The reality of it, of course, is that these days Dain has taken over the running of Erebor in everything but name. It is Dain who supervises the reconstruction and negotiates with their neighbours; who ensures that the newcomers to Erebor from the Iron Hills have enough to eat and drink. He’s a hearty man, not easily shaken, and he has remained staunch in his insistence that his is a temporary position. That he is only stepping into the role until Thorin is well enough to reclaim his birthright.

It must be hard, Bilbo thinks, to watch someone else take up the task you had always been told was your destiny. To play the spectator as Dain rebuilds a home that was never his to begin with.

Not that Thorin has seemed particularly interested in the challenges of kingship, lately. Not when he spends most of his time either cooped up in his room or with Bilbo, staying away from prying eyes rather than edging his way into the day-to-day running of the kingdom.

It’s a far cry from the man who had once ruled over these shattered halls, so briefly and with such sickness and anger in his heart. Who had proclaimed to the empty, echoing deeps that he was _the king_ ; who had spoken often about the loyalty he was due and the treasures he deserved.

The quiet between them has grown into a silence that hangs like a leaden weight in the air, an unsettled discomfort that Bilbo feels right down to his bones

And then –

It’s like watching a fire burn itself out in front of his eyes. One second, Thorin is filled with righteous anger that crackles in his eyes, that rolls off him in waves; and the next, he’s visibly deflating. Collapsing in on himself and looking suddenly very small, his eyes staring a fixed point on the other side of the room. 

“Dis will be making the trek from Ered Luin in the spring,” Thorin says quietly after a long while, and there’s a numb hopelessness in his voice that Bilbo has no idea how to handle. “Her messenger returned this morning. She’ll be coming as soon as the weather starts to clear.”

“Ah,” says Bilbo in understanding, his hands tightening on the teapot.

For a few long seconds, neither of them say anything. Bilbo runs through a few possible responses in his mind, but all of them seem feeble; conciliatory.

“Drink your tea before it gets cold,” Bilbo says at last, finally filling both of their mugs to the brim and settling back into his chair. He spoons a few teaspoons of honey – sent by Beorn, of course – into his own, absent-mindedly adding half as much to Thorin’s. Just the way he likes it. Bilbo fusses with their mugs for another minute, stirring the amber liquid this way and that in order to have something to do with his hands. “It’ll heat you up from the inside out, my old mum used to say.”

Thorin doesn’t say anything to that, but after a few moments of silence he dutifully picks up his mug and takes a long swallow.

Bilbo counts it as a victory, regardless.

 

\--

 

 

It isn’t that Bilbo’s _all right_ , per se.

Far from it, in fact. The trouble is that he’s so very far away from being all right that he seems to have lost the ability to talk about it at all. 

He still sees the rest of the Company, sometimes. Balin and Dwalin visit Thorin in the royal chambers as much as possible, but they both have skill sets that are badly required elsewhere. Balin for his counsel and Dwalin for his formidable strength, and both of them spend most of their time hard at work in the city at large.

Every so often, Bilbo ventures out into the rest of Erebor to track the others down. To see how they’re doing; to spend a few hours with _regular_ people, people he knows. People who are still capable of going about their daily lives.

It’s always refreshing to see all that they’ve managed to accomplish. Bombur has taken over the refugee soup kitchens, a task that suits him so perfectly it almost makes Bilbo want to laugh some days. Oin is always hard at work in the houses of healing, and Ori has put himself in charge of restoring Erebor’s great library. Both Dori and Gloin have been instrumental in reorganizing the old guild structure to better suit the needs of a recovering kingdom, something Bilbo hadn’t realized would be necessary until he got his first glimpse into dwarven guild politics. It’s enough to make even the worst family feuds back in the Shire look even-tempered and friendly by comparison, and he makes an effort to avoid the Guild Quarter afterwards.

He goes to visit Bofur the most, and he doesn’t feel guilty that their friendship runs deeper than many of the others forged during the quest. The man is constantly hard at work, alternating between clearing the deeper tunnels of rubble and, for a change of pace, looking after small groups of Iron Hills dwarflings whenever necessary. Bofur faces every challenge with a smile on his face no matter what the circumstances, and spending an afternoon with him is always enough to make Bilbo smile no matter how low his mood might’ve been before visiting.

Even Gandalf has chosen to remain in Erebor over the winter, sometimes providing counsel to Dain and other times wandering around the mountain without any apparent purpose whatsoever. He has an annoying habit of sending Bilbo meaningful looks over the bridge of his nose whenever they meet to share a pipe or have a cup of tea, but he always seems cheerful enough once they actually start talking.

Bilbo talks to them all whenever he can find time, and that’s good, he thinks. That’s wonderful.

Somehow, though, none of it feels as easy and natural as it once did. Before Erebor; before the battle. He loves them all like family, but these days it almost feels as though every interaction is forced. Unreal.

Every scrap of happiness Bilbo can find these days is edged with grief and sorrow and heartache. For Fili and Kili, yes – but also for everything that Thorin has become. Even more than those that were lost in battle, Bilbo mourns for the lost future the two of them might’ve had if things had gone differently. If everything had turned out just a little brighter in the end.

Sometimes Bilbo feel as though someone has taken a knife and carved everything out of him that matters; all that he used to find admirable or interesting or valuable about himself discarded on the floor like rubble from the tunnels, cast aside and useless.

It’s overdramatic and ridiculous and completely unreasonable for him to feel that way, of course, and so Bilbo smiles when people catch his eye and nods whenever the members of the Company tell him about their days and laughs in all the right places during Gandalf’s stories. Of all of them, Bilbo has the least reason to mope around and dwell on what-might-have-beens, and he tries to put forward a strong face for the rest of them. 

He keeps it all locked up even tighter whenever he’s with Thorin – and he’s with Thorin most of the time, these days. Sitting with him in silence and listening whenever he decides to talk and curling up on the sofa in the royal quarters to sleep at night, achingly conscious of all the empty space next to Thorin in bed that he patently refuses to occupy.

Neither of them has ever tried to put a name to whatever exists between them. They’re friends, yes – even family, come to that. But everything else – the lingering looks Thorin used to give him on the road, the way Thorin makes Bilbo’s heart feel so full it could burst, all the little ways Thorin had honoured him above all the rest of their companions even the depths of his madness – well.

Now isn’t exactly the best time to sort through all that, so Bilbo doesn’t try to.

It doesn’t help that the Thorin is barely a shadow of his former self, these days. It’s hard to maintain good spirits when the person he cares about most in the world is so torn to pieces.

Bilbo tries, of course: he puts up with Thorin’s desolate moods as best he can and he doesn’t abandon Thorin when he goes quiet and distant, overcome with how very differently his life has turned out than he once thought it might. Bilbo sits at Thorin’s side at the formal events he absolutely _must_ attend and stays close to him in the hallways in case the lingering pain overcomes him, always ready to catch Thorin around the middle and break his fall if he has to.

And when all of it becomes too much, too hard, too _overwhelming_ …

There’s always the ring for that.

When all of it becomes too much for him to handle, Bilbo finds that the best way to lessen the strain is to tuck himself into one of Erebor’s dark corners and slide the ring onto his finger. To live in that in-between world of grey-blurred light and darkness until it feels as though the whole world has passed him by.

It can be hard to drag himself away from the peace the ring has to offer, sometimes.  It makes it all the more difficult to come back to reality afterwards. 

But the worst part – worse than feeling distant from his friends and Thorin’s despondency and the aching void left by Fili and Kili – is the fact that sometimes Bilbo finds himself _grateful_. Disgustingly, horribly grateful. Because of all those who rode out to Ravenhill that day, Bilbo is so incredibly glad that Thorin was one of the ones who came back to him. He thinks that he would have chosen anyone else – anyone at all – to die in Thorin’s place, if it had come to that.

It’s terrible and awful and makes him feel sick to his stomach; he knows it’s not what Thorin would’ve chosen, had the choice been up to him, but he feels it all the same.

 

\--

 

The first group of refugees from the Blue Mountains arrive only a few weeks after the first spring thaw.

They must have started their journey by mid-winter in order to arrive so quickly, but Bilbo doesn’t blame them. They all seem ecstatic to be returning to their old home: many of the older dwarves have tears streaming into their beards as they come through the restored front gate, and many of the smaller ones point and exclaim in delighted awe as though witnessing a fairy story coming to life.

He and Thorin stand next to Dain to watch their procession into the mountain, as is only appropriate, and Bilbo can practically feel the tension emanating off Thorin’s body as he strains to keep himself standing rigid.

Lady Dis is the one who leads them into the city, wrapped in a travelling cloak and weighed down by a grief and solemn determination so palpable it sends a shock of fresh pain through Bilbo’s chest.  She is without a doubt the most effortlessly regal person Bilbo has ever laid eyes on, a proud tilt to her chin and a tightness in the way she holds herself that seems to preclude the possibility of her breaking down in public.

She greets Dain with a murmur of thanks – before finally turning to Thorin.

“ _Id-nadad_ ,” she says quietly, her eyes full of profound sadness, and Bilbo has spent enough time around dwarves to recognize the word for ‘brother’ when he hears it. She takes a deep breath, seems to hesitate – and then says a few more sentences in Khuzdul.

Dis manages to get through whatever she has to say without shattering, but whatever she says is enough to leave both brother and sister damp-eyed and thick-throated. She turns to Bilbo and nods briefly before bowing her head and sweeping past the rest of them, doubtlessly going back to the people she led here; to find them a place in the great vastness of the city.

Thorin and Dis agree to meet in private that night, and Bilbo doesn’t need to be told to know that this particular conversation is best left between siblings. He excuses himself to one of the lower levels instead, taking the opportunity to spend the evening in Bofur’s modest home.

It turns out that Bombur’s wife is one of the returning refugees who arrived with Dis that afternoon, so the conversation mostly centres around the reunion that had taken place between them all earlier that day.

“Ran right into his arms, she did!” Bofur tells him over dinner, a warm smile on his face as he sets down two plates of _zarshamâd_ _inbarathrag_ , a traditional dwarven dish made up of stuffed mushrooms and goat meat served over mashed root vegetables. “Dagní’s a hearty woman, she is, but it’s been over a year since they’ve seen each other. I’m fairly certain they were both crying into each other’s beards within about two seconds.”

“That’s good, though,” says Bilbo, a worn but genuine smile on his face as he quickly takes his first bite of dinner. It had taken him a little while to realize that waiting patiently for everyone to be seated before eating is actually rather bad manners in dwarven culture, with being able to wait generally interpreted as an insult to the smell and appearance of the food. It’s not difficult to eat enthusiastically, though; Bofur is almost as good a cook as his brother.  “I’m glad they could be reunited so quickly.”

“Aye,” Bofur agrees, cutting enthusiastically into the loaf of crusty brown bread. “It’s nice having more than a handful of dwarflings and dwarrowdams running around the place, too. Makes it feel more like a new beginning and less like we’re all just pretending, you know?”

“Mm,” Bilbo agrees through a mouthful of stuffed mushroom, and without meaning he finds his mind drifting to the conversation that Thorin and Dis are currently having behind closed doors. He wonders if she blames Thorin the way he blames himself, or if perhaps she’s just grateful that at least one member of her family is still alive. 

He blinks out of his reverie quickly and returns his attention to Bofur, but he needn’t have worried: it only takes one look at the distracted look on Bofur’s face, at the way he’s gently fingering the fur-lined edges of his ever-present hat, to know what he’s thinking about right now.

Once, over one too many cups of Elvish wine in Rivendell, Bofur told him that the hat had been a gift from his betrothed. He told Bilbo that her name was Nyr, that she had been a vegetable merchant’s daughter, that she had been gentle and funny and young and pretty.

That she had not survived the day the dragon came to Erebor all those years ago.

“He’s a lucky man, my brother,” Bofur says quietly after a lull in the conversation, seeming to snap out of whatever memory he had been thinking of. He gives Bilbo a tight smile, then tilts his head a little to one side. “It’s not everyone who gets to be with the one they love when all is said and done.”

From his place across the table, Bilbo hesitates. His mouth twitches as he thinks about Thorin presiding over all the gold or Erebor like a miser; Thorin wasting now away like a prisoner in his own chambers. He thinks about _you have no claim over me_ and kind, loving eyes and the Thorin he met all those months ago in Bag End. Proud and upright and absolutely untouchable, but with something so honourable and _good_ about him that Bilbo hadn’t been able to stop himself from admiring him even then.

“Quite right,” Bilbo says eventually, blinking hard and giving Bofur a humourless smile. “A very lucky man indeed.”

And that’s one thing he shares with Bofur, one thing Bilbo thinks they understand about each other better than almost anyone else: they both smile when they’re sad.  

If Bofur notices the dip in Bilbo’s mood, he makes no comment. Instead he feeds Bilbo full to bursting and lets him sleep on a spare straw mattress and pointedly doesn’t ask him to talk about how he’s doing, and in the morning Bilbo returns once again to the royal quarters.

He finds Thorin sitting in a corner of the room, arms crossed in a way that might’ve looked defensive were it not for the fact that his eyes are still red-rimmed and swollen.  There are two half-empty mugs of tea left sitting on the table across the room, the bedsheets twisted up in a way that suggests a restless night, and Bilbo wonders if Thorin got any sleep at all after his sister left.

Bilbo takes a tentative step forward, then another one, and before long he’s standing behind Thorin’s back, twisting his hands anxiously as he tries to think about how to proceed.  After a moment or two he reaches out and places one of his hands on Thorin’s shoulders, giving it a quick squeeze and prepared to let go at a moment’s notice if necessary.

Instead Thorin reaches up and covers Bilbo’s small hand with his larger one, shoulders shaking as he clutches at Bilbo’s hand and doesn’t let go for a very long time.

                                         

\--

 

It only takes a few days of Dis’s presence for Bilbo to fully realize just how much remaining in Erebor is hindering Thorin’s recovery. 

It isn’t her fault: Dis is strong and kind and she _understands_ what happened, and she doesn’t seem to blame Thorin for the loss of her children as much as look to him as someone who loved them as much as she did. But it becomes more and more apparent as the days and weeks pass by that Thorin cannot look at her without seeing the quirk of Fili’s mouth, without remembering the way Kili’s brow always furrowed whenever he stared at something in concentration.

The ghosts of his sister-sons are everywhere, but they are alive and ever-present in the face of his sister.

Regardless, Bilbo rather suspects that Dis’s arrival has only hastened on a degeneration that was already well underway before she ever set foot in Erebor again. It’s as though the longer Thorin stays in Erebor, the more he realizes that there is no way of reclaiming the life he used to have here. Not even with the kingdom reclaimed, not even with his sister here, not even with Bilbo at his side.

The Erebor of his past is long gone, destroyed by fire and war and death, and the one he hoped to rebuild from its ashes is forever out of his reach.

And Bilbo _knows_ Thorin; knows how everything around him reminds him of his failures. It pains Thorin to see Dain rising to the challenge of leadership, to watch as the rest of the Company slowly settles back into their old lives or find new ones to embrace. His wounds are mostly healed but the weakness still lingers, and Bilbo knows that it’s agony for him to watch his people rally around another king in all but name. To know that when he dies, the line of Durin will be well and truly ended.

And Thorin blames himself, Bilbo knows, for everything that went wrong during the battle – and for everything that happened before it, come to that. He feels it in the way Thorin refuses to look him in the eye sometimes, the way he seems to viscerally _hate_ himself for accepting Bilbo’s comfort.

The sickening guilt of it all weighs heavily upon Thorin’s back, ever-present and terrible and _overwhelming_ , until there comes a day when Bilbo genuinely finds himself wondering how long Thorin can possibly last like this. How long a person can keep struggling onward when they can’t help but succumb to self-destruction every step of the way. 

 

\--

 

It’s one of Dain’s banquets that seals the matter for Bilbo once and for all.

The banquets are grand affairs, a chance to showcase all the progress that Erebor has made these past months and to encourage its neighbours to move forward with productive trade agreements. Erebor is a mountain kingdom with limited aboveground land that falls under its purview, so forging strong trade relationships with its neighbours is essential in order for the dwarves to continue receiving necessity items such as grain, wool, vegetables, and meat. Diamonds and gold are pretty things but they cannot feed a kingdom, and Bilbo is irrationally pleased that Dain seems so mindful of this reality.

He’s less pleased that the event is so important it is deemed necessary for Thorin to come, because it necessarily means an evening of spectacle and self-adornment. Putting on a show of strength and confidence for their neighbours, draped in jewellery and adornments and wrapped up in the heaviest, richest fabric that Erebor has to offer – and all of it with a deeply unhappy Thorin by his side.

The evening goes well at first, all things considered. Thranduil is there, as is Bard of Dale and several important lords from the Iron Hills. The most important guests, however, are two very different groups of men. The first is a group of representatives from Forodwaith, a people with light brown skin whose formal attire seems to be primarily made up of heavy furs despite the warmth of the halls. The second is the Steward of Gondor and his family, all of them draped in fine white and black garments with silver embellishments.

All of the members of the Company have been made to sit at the high table tonight along with Dain and the representatives from the other kingdoms, and Bilbo realizes quickly that the point of this particular display is to emphasize all the Ereborian dwarves have done lately to stave off the hordes of evil and exactly what that means for the rest of Arda. 

As far as Bilbo is concerned, the first course is a success. The food served is _sabk asmakshâlak_ , a type of thin broth served with crusty bread for dipping, and Thorin is able to trudge his way through conversation with one of the women from Forodwaith – Kikqualuit, Bilbo thinks her name is – about how the dish is prepared and what its significance is in dwarven culture. He rather suspects the woman to be feigning interest out of politeness more than anything else, but it gets them through the first dish without incident.

The second course is an array of roasted root vegetables smothered in rich gravy that has no particular name in Khuzdul, followed by skewered quail served on a bed of herbs and barley.

And then there is the _mithrînhasas_ , the centrepiece roast: a massive roast boar of truly incredible proportions that is so incredibly large Bilbo wonders briefly if it came from the same stock they use to breed warhogs. The skin is crackling and it tastes _heavenly_ , and for a moment Bilbo dares to hope that all of this will end up going smoothly.

“Now that we have all gorged ourselves silly,” Dain proclaims loudly once the last of the dishes have been cleared away, a whiskery smile edging at the corners of his mouth. “I wonder if it isn’t time for us to hear the great tale once more. The story of how my cousin – Thorin, King Under the Mountain – reclaimed this kingdom from Smaug the Golden after all the world said it to be impossible. How dwarves, elves, and men fought back against the hordes of evil; how Erebor has been reforged by the friendship between our races!”

There’s a smattering of applause all around them, but Bilbo only has eyes for Thorin beside him. Thorin, whose face has gone absolutely unreadable at the news that tonight they will be reliving what he considers to be his greatest failure in front of a hall full of witnesses.

Bilbo takes a deep breath, exhaling heavily as an Ereborean bard walks to the front of the hall and takes up the story with aplomb, starting right at the beginning with the formation of the Company in Ered Luin.

“How exciting!” murmurs Morweth, wife to Ecthelion II of Gondor. Bilbo glances up and realizes that her words are directed towards Lady Dis sitting next to her. She rests a hand companionably on Dis’s shoulder, not seeming to realize that Dis has gone tight-lipped and very still. Morweth smiles down at her before continuing conspiratorially. “I’ve never heard a dwarven bard before.”

“Indeed,” says Dis stiffly, clearly struggling to maintain her composure as she stares at the overblown performance currently playing out in front of them.

Bilbo winces, moving subtly closer to Thorin just enough that his shoulder is pressed up against Thorin’s upper arm. Thorin nods wearily at the gesture, but where Dis seems angered by the unexpected performance Thorin just seems… worn down. Tired in a bone-deep way that makes some unknown fear start to coil low and tight in the pit of Bilbo’s stomach.

It is the single longest half hour that Bilbo has ever lived through, no question. Longer than all the Sunday second breakfasts he used to be forced to sit through with his old granny; longer than the time he and the Company spent half the day in barrels on the Long Lake with absolutely nothing to distract them from their boredom. Even longer than the morning he had marched back to Erebor to confess his theft of the Arkenstone to Thorin, for at least _that_ had been fuelled by nerves and sickening anticipation.

The performance seems to drag on forever, detailing their escape from the goblins and glossing over their capture by the Mirkwood Elves and barely even mentioning Thorin’s temptation by the Arkenstone, and for a little while Bilbo thinks they might be able to get through the whole thing without incident.

Until the bard starts praising the bravery of those who rode up to face Azog on Ravenhill.

With a screech of wooden chair legs on stone, Thorin pushes his chair back from the table and gets to his feet in a single movement, striding out of the hall without another word. Bilbo scrambles out of his seat after him, murmuring apologies to the others at the table and not even caring if any of them are offended at their sudden exit. He tries very hard not to notice the way Dis is staring up at the ceiling, refusing to let the tears fall from her eyes.

Bilbo pushes through the wooden doors into the hallway after Thorin, running past a pair of startled-looking dwarven guards and throwing shadows of movement on the torch lit walls. He curses the jewel-embroidered fabric he’s wearing when it gets tangled around his feet, kicking at it awkwardly as he runs.

“Thorin!” he calls out, rounding a corner and not caring even a little bit if he looks like an idiot in front of the entire kingdom right now. “Thorin–”

He turn the corner – and there’s Thorin, standing with his back slumped against the corridor wall. His head is tilted up towards the ceiling but his eyes are closed, and for a moment Bilbo just stands there and takes him in.

Thorin is wearing a thick blue tunic more similar to what he wore in Bag End than what he wore during his goldsickness, but there are still a few details that emphasize his stature. The sleeves and neckline are embroidered with golden thread, and the tunic itself is synched closed with a leather and gold belt. There’s a fine fur cloak over his shoulders, but it’s much lighter than the one he wore during the quest; made for appearances, not for warmth. His hair is decorated with several intricate braids, all of which are held together with mithril beads.

There is no crown atop his head, although Dain had wanted him to wear one.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says again, heaving a sigh of relief as he jogs over to join Thorin against the wall. He hesitates for a moment once he gets there, uncertain of how to proceed. “Are you –?”

“I’m quite all right, Master Baggins,” Thorin says, his voice coming out low and oddly lethargic. He keeps his eyes closed, head still tilted toward the ceiling.

“That was hardly a fair thing for Dain to do,” Bilbo rages after a beat, pursing his lips and trying very hard not to call him some very rude names to his cousin’s face. “He should’ve warned you – and Dis, too. It was hardly reasonable to expect–”

“I could not bear to listen to how it ends,” Thorin murmurs, continuing on as though Bilbo hasn’t been speaking. His voice is quiet, but there’s something about the way he’s speaking that makes Bilbo snap his lips shut. That makes his pointed ears prick up and his whole body snap to attention. “With me still alive and – and the two of them dead. I could not bear it.”

“Thorin,” says Bilbo sympathetically, but Thorin is speaking again before he can move forward to place a hand on his arm in comfort.

“I wish it had ended there,” Thorin says very quietly, and Bilbo feels his whole body tense up at his words. “On the battlefield. Having conquered the dragon sickness, fighting alongside my family.” He finally tilts his head down and opens his eyes to look at Bilbo, giving him a small wry smile worn down by far too much sadness. “There is hardly much left for me here, Master Burglar. Perhaps it would have been better had my story ended there on the ice; snuffed out at my best rather than trailing along forever at my worst.”

There is a moment of stunned silence in which Bilbo can’t speak, can’t _think_. Can’t find anything to say in the face of something like that, until –

“No,” Bilbo snaps firmly, and he’s not even finished processing Thorin’s words but he's still satisfied when Thorin blinks at him in vague surprise. “No no no no no, I will _not_ listen to you talk like that. Not when I’ve given thanks to _every single_ _one_ of the Valar for bringing you back to me. I will not _have_ it, Thorin.” He presses his lips tight together, inhaling deeply and exhaling deeply. “You have no idea. You have no _idea_ how grateful people are that you’re alive, Thorin. You have no idea how grateful _I_ –”

Bilbo cuts himself off when the words catch in his throat, narrowing his eyes at Thorin instead. He has the good grace to look caught off guard, at least.

“I will hear no more of this,” Bilbo says conclusively, as though he is the king and not the other way around. He swallows hard, cocking his head a little to one side. “There’s no need for us to stay and listen to the rest. Let’s get out of here.”

He lets out a huff of air and begins to walk in the direction of the royal chambers, only half-expecting Thorin to follow him.

The sound of Thorin’s boots on the stone floor behind him is enough to make some of the tension leave his shoulders.  Bilbo sets his jaw, hauls up the too-long fabric of his robes, and leads the way.

 

\--

 

When Bilbo gives in and finally _voices_ the thought that’s been slowly taking root in the back of his mind these past few months, he doesn’t actually expect for Thorin to take him seriously. It’s a suggestion made half in jest and half in desperation, something he feels he must at least try to offer. At the same time, it’s not something he can really imagine Thorin taking him up on.

All Bilbo knows is that, for all Thorin would’ve given his life to reclaim Erebor, the day to day reality of living here is draining the life from him as surely as the dragon sickness leeched at his sanity. Every hall he walks through is a reminder of his failures, every dwarf he meets an echo of everyone he has lost.

And Bilbo knows that he worries, that he fusses – but if he’s honest with himself, he knows that Thorin has never failed to give him good reason to worry. That between the two of them, Thorin has always had the softer heart. He loves too strongly, cares too deeply – has always been far too willing to burn himself out on the fire of honour and glory.

He has seen Thorin bad-tempered and enraged and brimming with festering madness, and in a strange way this lingering discontent unsettles Bilbo more profoundly than all of them combined.

Because it’s not just that Thorin is being moody or upset or difficult to live with. It’s that Bilbo is scared – really, genuinely _scared_ – that Thorin doesn’t seem to be getting better. That remaining in Erebor will leave him embittered with resentment and grief, caring more for the ghosts of what might have been than the stone beneath his feet or the hearts that love him still. Hollowed-out and empty until there’s nothing of himself left; until Thorin Oakenshield will be gone as surely as if Azog had cloven his heart in two that day on the mountaintop. 

Regardless, Bilbo isn’t one to deal in wishful thinking. And so when he finally asks whether Thorin may perhaps be interested in accompanying Bilbo back to the Shire, he doesn’t truly expect Thorin to even consider the proposition.

The two of them are sitting in Thorin’s chambers when he brings it up, both having just returned from a quiet breakfast with Balin and Dwalin. They’re both well-fed and not about to be interrupted any time soon, and it seems like as good a time as any to ask. If he’s honest with himself, Bilbo doesn’t really expect Thorin to even consider accepting; has already braced himself for outright rejection, perhaps even an outburst of anger.

He certainly doesn’t expect Thorin to go absolutely rigid, to remain silent for a very long while. He doesn’t raise his eyes up to meet Bilbo’s but he doesn’t say anything in response either, and all at once Bilbo feels a belated rush of nervous apprehension in the pit of his stomach.

After a very long pause during which Bilbo barely dares to breathe, some of the tension eases out of Thorin’s shoulders.

“I must think on this,” Thorin says eventually, furrowing his brow as he stares down at his lap.

His voice is low and introspective and absolutely serious, and Bilbo scarcely manages to stop a small noise of surprise from escaping his throat because this is so much more than he ever hoped to come away with. Bilbo nods emphatically, trying very hard not to give away just how shocked he is by Thorin’s response.

And then Thorin is turning in his seat, catching Bilbo’s gaze and holding it with startling intensity. His eyes are wide and there’s something urgent in the lines of his face – as though something has just occurred to him for the first time.

“You won’t leave, will you?” Thorin asks quickly, the words coming out in a slightly panicked rush. His mouth twitches, and Bilbo is startled to realize that there’s something almost like fear gleaming in his eyes. “You won’t go on alone. You’ll wait until I decide.”

The last part is half question, half weakly-worded command, and Bilbo stares at him without comprehension for a few long moments before realizing exactly where they’ve lost track of one another.

“Oh, I’m not – Thorin, I’m not planning to go back on my own,” Bilbo clarifies quickly, holding up his hands in placation. An awkward laugh bubbles up from inside his chest, catching even himself off guard. “At least not any time soon. If you decide to remain in Erebor, I’ll be staying here with you.”

There’s a beat, and all at once Bilbo realizes just how presumptuous that sounds. He coughs lightly.

“Unless you rather that I leave, of course,” Bilbo finishes in an uncertain tone of voice, not quite managing to look Thorin in the eye.

“Don’t,” Thorin murmurs at once, his jaw set and hunched in on himself, and there’s a quietly pleading note in his voice that just about breaks Bilbo’s heart. Thorin swallows hard, takes a deep breath – and then looks up to catch Bilbo’s eyes once again. He holds his gaze for a long moment, somehow managing to convey a whole world of meaning without saying anything at all. “Please don’t, Bilbo.”

There’s a moment where Bilbo’s name hangs in the air between them, so much history and emotion wrapped up in such a simple word. He nods at Thorin stupidly, suddenly aware of the way his stomach is fluttering like a tween about to attend his first party. It’s not something he’s felt in a very long time indeed, and he pushes the feeling away briskly. Now isn’t the place or the time, and these certainly aren’t the right circumstances.  

“I won’t,” Bilbo says simply instead, slapping a smile on his face and blithely holding Thorin’s gaze.

It takes a long time for Thorin to look away and even longer for the air between them to settle back into something normal again – and then that’s it. The conversation is over.

Now the only thing that Bilbo can do is wait.  

 

 

\--

 

The next week is one of the most agonizingly slow weeks of Bilbo’s entire life.

It’s certainly not for lack of activity; one of the consequences of living in a kingdom that’s literally being rebuilt from the ground up is that there’s no such thing as a restful Tuesday afternoon or a lazy Saturday morning.

Another group of refugees from the Blue Mountains arrives two days after his conversation with Thorin about the Shire, an event that always means a last-minute scramble for blankets and bedding and mugs and bowls no matter how hard they try to stay prepared. There’s a meeting with Dain that Thorin must attend midway through the week about city planning (which is dry and dull but doubtless very important) and the Jewelers’ Guild hosts a grand renewal celebration in the _nizlumul_ district (which is rather enjoyable if quite boisterous). There’s a meeting with Dis about re-establishing primary education for the increasing number of dwarflings coming to them from Blue Mountains, and the week ends with yet another consultation with the healers to assess the lingering aspects of Thorin’s wounds.

It’s a busy week, all things considered, and Bilbo would not have been surprised if Thorin simply hadn’t been able to find _time_ to think about such a deeply personal matter. 

And so Bilbo is surprised – stunned, really – when Thorin asks to speak with him in private after Bilbo returns from a visit with Bofur.

Absenting himself had been very much a strategic move; the healers had been due to make a house call that afternoon, and Bilbo knows how much Thorin hates others being privy to his own weakness. He settles willingly enough in the sturdy wooden chair next to Thorin’s by the fireplace, patiently waiting for whatever he has to say. 

Thorin seems to hesitate for a moment, staring absently into the flames.

“I spoke to the healers this afternoon,” Thorin says after a moment, and Bilbo blinks in confusion because, well. That would seem the thing to do when they come into your chambers and start examining you, wouldn’t it. He’s glad he doesn’t say anything, though, because after a moment Thorin continues. “They say I am fit for travel, although the journey will be an uncomfortable one.”

His voice is so flat and dull that it takes Bilbo far too long to fully understand the meaning of his words. Bilbo’s mouth falls open in silent surprise when he realizes, gaping for a moment and hardly bearing to speak.

“You…” Bilbo begins, giving his head a little shake as he desperately tries to process the enormity of this declaration. “You’re going to come with me? Back to the Shire. Back to Bag End.”

Thorin huffs out a humourless laugh, turning to look at Bilbo for the first time since he walked in the room. There’s something deeply saddened in his expression, although his lips are twitching with something wry and self-deprecating. He looks like a man who knows his own fate; someone who has already given up everything of import and can only marvel at the hand fate has dealt him. 

“I rather suspect it may be best,” Thorin says dryly, a shadow of dark certainty passing over his face. “I know I am not needed here,” he says flatly, halting Bilbo’s protest with a sharp look before he can even say anything out loud. “I know it as well as everyone else does, Master Baggins. Dain has been a better king these past few months than I could have dreamt of being, and my nephews…”

The words cut off abruptly when Thorin’s voice wavers on the last word, but he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before forging onward.

“My nephews are not here for me to bolster their rule,” he finishes, the words somehow brittle and venomous all at once. He takes a deep breath before raising his eyes to meet Bilbo’s, a hint of a fragile smile in his eyes. “Erebor is not home for me; not anymore. But I have done my duty.  I have taken back the kingdom. My people have reclaimed their birthright. There is nothing here for me now but memories and regret.”

Bilbo swallows hard and doesn’t look away, utterly at a loss for what to say to that. And after a moment – a long, difficult moment – Thorin reaches out to him.

He rests his hand on Bilbo’s knee, fingers so thick and palm so broad that Bilbo feels tiny by comparison. Thorin holds his gaze steadily, swallowing down what Bilbo now realizes is _nervousness_. 

“If you would have me, Master Baggins,” Thorin says quietly, his pale eyes shining in the firelight, unfaltering and burning with a conviction that Bilbo hasn’t seen in him in so very long. “If you would have me, I would go with you.”

And it’s…

It’s inevitable and a revelation and shocking all at once, a handful of such simple little words to change the direction of their lives forever. His eyes burn and his throat feels thick, and he can feel the warmth and the weight of Thorin’s hand on his knee.

He thinks of Fili and Kili being sung into the ground, of Bofur in his modest little house and Balin providing counsel for Dain and the incredible strength he sees in Lady Dis every day. He thinks about the towering height of the Lonely Mountain and the rolling green hills of the Shire, of his own little home tucked under the earth. He thinks about the acorn from Beorn’s garden, still tucked safely in his pocket.

He thinks of Thorin, and Thorin, and Thorin.

Bilbo finds he can’t speak, but he thinks that Thorin understands all the same.

 

 

\--

 

They stay long enough to see Dain crowned before they go.

It’s a grand ceremony, held in one of the great stone halls. Sunlight streams in from the many diamond shafts up to the surface, filling the space with dazzling light only made brighter by the many torches on the walls. There are representatives from Dale and Mirkwood and the Iron Hills in attendance, as is only appropriate, but the real guests of honour are the hundreds of dwarves of Erebor who come to witness their king finally take up the crown.

Dain had objected to Thorin’s abdication, at first – but Bilbo doesn’t think his heart was truly in it. The man might be larger than life in some ways, but in other ways Dain is startlingly pragmatic. For all he has not always been particularly sensitive about it, Bilbo knows that Dain has not been blind to the way Thorin has suffered these past months. To the way his cousin has caved in on himself more and more since the death of his nephews.

Once he had accepted the news about Thorin’s abdication, Dain had taken the news about their relocation to the Shire with good grace and sympathy. He had even offered to send them off with a party of guards to accompany them for the journey, which Thorin had kindly but firmly refused. He continues to insist that both of them are welcome back to Erebor at any time, that all they must do is send word and a dispatch of dwarven guards will be sent to the Shire to escort them back home.

Dain is a good man, Bilbo thinks, for all he may be unreasonable at times.

There’s part of Bilbo that half-expects Thorin to be torn apart with shame at the whole process of leaving; to struggle and chafe and agonize over his decision to leave his people; to give up the kingdom he sacrificed so much to reclaim.

The breakdown never comes.

Instead Thorin meets with his advisors and signs all the necessary papers, and as soon as the pomp and splendour of Dain’s crowning ceremony is over it strikes Bilbo that it’s done. It’s over.

That Thorin is the King Under the Mountain no more, and that Bilbo is only just barely starting to learn how to live with that reality. Thorin does not talk about it; just remains hard and unyielding in the face of it all, and it’s more like _him_ than Bilbo’s seen him act in a long while.

And it’s strange, because in another life Bilbo thinks he could’ve been happy here. In these endless halls and fathomless deeps, in this world beneath the earth. He has seen the chambers filled with golden light, as Thorin promised he would. Has basked in the glow of the great forges, alight once again and teeming with the bustle and laughter of those who have finally returned home. Has loved and laughed in this place despite all that happened.

It’s not a life he ever knew he wanted, but Bilbo thinks he could have made it home. If Fili and Kili had never fallen; if Thorin had not been left wasting away inside these halls, left empty and hollowed-out by everything that could have been. 

They stay long enough to get Thorin’s affairs in order; long enough for Bilbo to collect two small chests of gold, enough for two ponies to carry without much difficulty, and Thorin makes no comment about the small size of their share. Long enough for Thorin to say a last goodbye to his nephews and say a proper farewell to his sister, a meeting he leaves with bloodshot eyes and a resolute set to his jaw, one of Kili’s old rings and a bead from one of Fili’s braids clutched protectively in his hand.

They say their goodbyes to the company, something that is harder than Bilbo could have ever thought possible. He knows he will miss them all desperately; Balin’s sage advice and the sarcastic quirk of Dwalin’s eyebrows, Bombur’s wonderful cooking and Bifur’s contented rambling. He’ll miss Oin’s half-shouted anecdotes and the dinners he’s shared with Gloin and his lovely family; he’ll miss Ori’s youthful enthusiasm and Nori’s roguish winks and Dori’s delight whenever he stopped by for tea.

Bilbo thinks he will miss Bofur’s cheerful smile the most, and that goodbye is the hardest one for him by far. But Bofur just gives him a fierce hug and promises to visit before too long, and Bilbo knows that he can trust Bofur to do it. They smile at each other when they part, Bofur’s eyes shining and Bilbo blinking hard, and they go their separate ways before either of them can be brought irreparably low by the whole process.

“Take good care of the old lunkhead, will you?” Dwalin mutters to Bilbo when all is said and done, when goodbyes have been said and eyes have been dried, and Bilbo just nods with quiet determination as everyone else mills about around them.

And on the late spring morning when Gandalf finally rides out from Erebor, Bilbo and Thorin go with him.

As their ponies edge their way down the rocky mountainside, past the great expanse where the battle was fought and past the slowly-rejuvenating city of Dale and down to the Long Lake, Bilbo finds himself half-wondering what history will make of Thorin Oakenshield. If he will be remembered as a hero or a madman or a martyr; as someone who sacrificed everything he had for his people or someone who came so very close to losing the dwarves their homeland. He wonders how Thorin will be remembered when people speak his name in a year, a decade, a century; if they will be singing songs about his victories or cursing his failures. He wonders if anyone will remember him at all.

In the end, Bilbo decides that it doesn’t matter. Thorin is alive, and so is he – and Bilbo cares more for how Thorin fares in this world than for how he will be remembered once he has passed on to the next.

He steals a glance over at Thorin riding next to him, his pony laden down with supplies for the road and a familiar-looking fur cloak draped over his shoulders. He’s holding himself a little bit awkwardly – his injury still pains him at times, and the healers warned him that it would be an uncomfortable trip – but his eyes are focused straight ahead on the road in front of them. 

Thorin looks the closest to hopeful that Bilbo has seen him in a long time, and Bilbo can’t quite stop himself from smiling at the sight of him. 

They keep riding out into the west.

 

 

 

 

**The End**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. If you have enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a comment; I would truly appreciate it. 
> 
> If you like, you can also join me over on [tumblr](http://emilianadarling.tumblr.com) for more post-BotFA sobbing, writing updates, headcanons, and general Thorin/Bilbo madness. :3


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